


knee deep, rising

by thefudge



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Disturbing Themes, Dubious Consent, F/M, Modern Era, put me in the trash, smb should probably stop me, yeeeeeep i'm going there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:14:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4057897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU.  He could not remember the last person who had so unseemly shrugged him off. Perhaps there never had been...such a person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

"I don't like this crap music."

The blood rushed to his ears, drowning the undulating notes of the  _Scheherazade_. Rimsky Korsakov was utterly wasted on this sloe-eyed creature. 

"Arya! What a rude thing to say!" her fair sister chided with the authority of the older. She looked to her mother for approval, but Catelyn Stark was not paying attention. She was engaged in conversation with Olenna Tyrell. 

Thus far, the dinner had run smoothly. The families gathered around the table, though bearing no great love for each other, suffered through this ritual for the sake of their assets. Even the children seemed to understand.

Well, except this little beast. 

Tywin eyed her from his seat at the head of the table. 

One earbud dangled insolently from her ear. She sat slouched, elbows on the table, a look of immeasurable boredom gracing her slovenly features. He had seen this dead stare before; his grandson, Joffrey, sported something similar when anything except video games and pornography was presented to him. He did not hide his contempt. 

"The music is lovely," Sansa Stark insisted a bit louder than usual, making sure everyone nearby heard her. Tywin swallowed the remains of his scotch. Perhaps he should have a talk with Eddard about his daughters. Namely, to spare him the pleasure of their company. _He_ had not allowed for his grandchildren to be present.

"Classical music is for twats," Arya Stark replied in a whisper, sneering at her sister.

Tywin blinked. There was a collective pause in the dinner clamor. He clenched his fist under the table. The girl did not seem to realize he had heard. That, or she had taken it upon herself to insult him. 

Kevan leaned forward. "I think it's high time we make the final offer to Mace Tyrell. Suppose he changes his mind and -"

"Not tonight," Tywin cut him off brusquely. His brother raised his eyebrows in surprise. On the surface, Tywin looked perfectly calm, traversed by no qualms other than his usual concerns for his capital ventures. But between the grave tones of his voice one could detect a fetid fluid.

Kevan shrugged. "Have it your way." 

His favorite movement of the symphony had started. _The Young Prince and The Young Princess_. Arya Stark snorted loudly as she looked at the screen of her phone under the table. He had been plain. No devices at the dinner table. What kind of _infernal_ order did Stark keep in his house? The brat could not be older than sixteen. She was in sore need of disciplining. 

* * *

 

His bones throbbed with the need to crack them. He had been sitting at his desk for too long, going over the Tyrell proposal step by step. His guests were chattering in the parlor. He had told Kevan "not tonight", but he found himself immersed in the legal stipulations of the money transfer either way. If his brother already wanted to launch the offer, it only meant he was nervous and Tywin surmised Mace had gotten the better of him somehow. He was _right_. Tyrell had added a couple of extraneous conditions to the contract. He would see about amending them without fail.

The door to his study was rudely pushed open.

"Oh, sorry, I was looking for the bathr- " The words fell off her lips. "Mr. Lannister."

The Stark brat stood undecided in the doorway, one foot on the carpeted floor, the other upturned on her toes, like some mangled, stunted doll. He couldn't decide on her garments. She wore thick black stockings and an awkward chemise that ran down to her knees. Everything around her seemed to spit her out. She was a stain of bad taste. 

"Sorry to bother you," she said, about to turn, "Sansa knows this place better."

 _Yes, she would_ , Tywin thought. _She visits my grandson religiously._

Arya was about to leave, but his bones demanded movement.

"I will show you."

"You don't have to -"

"I'm going that way, anyway."

A small lie. He rose ceremoniously, brushing his papers aside and pushing the screen of his laptop down. Menial tasks, but they were performed with a strain of elegance, which made Arya gawk. She stepped into the hallway when he closed the study door behind him. 

"Just point me to the -"

"I said I'll show you."

Arya shrugged, her dense brown eyes stirring with teenage dissent. "Fine." 

He walked a step ahead of her. He was two heads taller. She was dwarfed in his company, but she held herself much taller. Her music player was jutting out of her chemise's pocket. 

Tywin turned a corner and stepped down a short flight of stairs. Arya followed in silence.

He stopped in front of a blue paneled door. "I hope you don't mind, the servants' restroom was nearer." 

Arya threw him a cursory glance. "Thank you. Does that make me your servant?"

She turned the knob and ventured inside. A stream of soft sounds spilled into the hall. The _Scheherazade_. 

"Ah. Yes. I'm afraid the music is everywhere," he said, punctuating his words with soft irony.

The little beast looked up at him with strands of secret comprehension. A swift widening of her eyes and - she shrugged again. 

"No problem. I _love_ this stuff," she drawled.

Tywin cracked the bones of his hands against each other. "Is that so?"

"Yeah, classical music is my thing, Mr. Lannister," she replied serenely. "Thanks for - you know." She waved her hand towards the bathroom. 

Her sloe-eyes went soft and hard at the same time.

Tywin nodded his head absently. He turned away before she had the chance to say more. But he realized something, as he walked aimlessly towards the garage. The Stark girl had no shame. Uncouth and ungainly, she was ever content with herself. His authority meant nothing to her. 

He could not remember the last person who had so unseemly shrugged him off. 

Perhaps there never had been...such a person. 

* * *

 

With no desire for it, he stood in the parlor and watched his daughter bid frosty adieus to their guests. Cersei could not stand the Starks. In particular Sansa, who had latched on to her son like a leech. Yet, no one could fault the girl's beauty and manners. Eddard loved to sing her praises. Top of her class, best behaved, charming, yet modest. A bright future, waiting to embrace her.

Tywin kissed Lady Olenna's hand. The butler helped her with her heavy coat. Behind her, Arya pulled the sleeves out of her jacket. What future would await her?

She brushed her shoulder-length hair aside and slipped the earbuds in her ears. From that distance, he could already hear the chaotic sounds bursting out of the insect-like wires. Arya caught his eye. She mouthed a listless goodbye at him and then promptly turned and stalked out of the parlor while her parents and sister were still paying the Lannisters compliments over their dinner.

Tywin cracked the bones in his hand. The girl needed discipline. And her father was not going to provide it.  Eddard did not even notice when she slipped out. This would not do.

If the Starks were going to continue associating with his family - in particular, Sansa - that little beast would need to be tamed. 


	2. Chapter 2

"Tell me, Eddard, do you have plans to enroll your daughter into any summer programs?"

He rather liked the dumbfounded look on Stark's face. He was always caught off-guard when Tywin mentioned his life outside the office. Like the lone wolf that he was, Eddard saw his pack as something altogether separate from his work. His mistake.

"I could suggest something appropriate, if you like," he continued, unperturbed. When the silence stretched for too long, he pushed the paperwork aside, and stared at his senior partner expectantly. 

Eddard shifted his eyes warily. 

"I ...Thank you. That won't be necessary. Sansa and Joff are both going to Lausanne for the model UN conference, are they not?"

Tywin pursed his lips and rolled the tip of his pen between thumb and forefinger. 

"Yes. I should know, I arranged it. I was talking about your _other_ daughter."

Eddard tried not to look stricken. "Arya?" 

"The very one. How will she be occupying her free time these two months? Myrcella has kindly extended an invitation to join her tennis club. I hear your daughter declined."

Stark blushed a deep, angry red. The wolf could barely contain his emotions. Tywin would have pitied him, but he did not suffer fools who had no control over their family. 

"I'm afraid Arya isn't _keen_ on competitive sports or...well, group activities."

"So it would seem. Rather bad for her future credentials."

"She's still young. There's time to learn," Eddard replied politely, but crisply. He was ready to drop the subject altogether, and might've been two seconds away from telling Tywin to do the same. Except Lannister was his superior and his eldest daughter was practically engaged to his future heir. 

"Like I said. I could suggest something appropriate."

"She's a good child, if a little rough around the edges," Eddard persisted, stumbling for words. The unruly girl was his favorite, Tywin suspected. 

"I don't deny her good character. But those edges need to be smoothed. There are appearances we need to maintain."

* * *

 

The little beast was practically fuming. There was something akin to Cersei in her temper. But his own daughter had been bent straight at Arya's age. She had learned better, safer ways to show her claws. Perhaps Arya would too. If she cared to listen. If not, she would suffer. 

"Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Lannister," she mumbled to the floor as she stood outside his office. Tywin regarded her with the practiced nonchalance of a man who has many under his command and remembers few. He pushed open the door and signaled for her to go in. Eddard had dropped her on his floor after patting her on the back and whispering some words of wisdom in her ear - "don't forget to thank Mr. Lannister". He had not stayed to hear her say the words. 

Tywin walked past her to his desk. 

Arya remained in the antechamber, ogling without much self-consciousness at the various Fauvist works he had on display. The brutal reds and oranges startled her. She had the same reaction as many first-timers. They didn't think Tywin Lannister would condone something so lurid and _loud._

"They called themselves Les Fauves. Do you know what it means?"

Arya looked at him over her shoulder. 

"I don't take French in school."

"Wild beasts," he translated, pressing down on the remote control. The blinds turned sideways and the afternoon light was portioned into perfectly straight lines across the floor. Arya's overalls were striped with light. 

She sank her hands in her pockets and stepped away from the paintings. 

"What should I do for you, Mr. Lannister?"

"You can start with your attire. I want to see you wearing a blouse and skirt tomorrow morning."

Arya looked up, almost offended. 

"What's wrong with -"

"Everything. Now, skirt, stockings -"

"Can't I wear pants?"

 _"Skirt._ And sensible shoes," he added, looking down at her interlaced sandals. 

"Father didn't say -"

"Yes, well, you are not to be _his_ assistant. You will pull up your hair too. The face must be clean. Light makeup only." The clumsy khol lines drawn under her eyes made for a savage look. Which would not do. 

"I'm sorry, _Sir,"_ she said, with very little contriteness, "but you already have a lot of assistants."

"One more should do the trick."

"Sansa would make a -"

"Your sister is already doing what is expected of her. She can't do your share, I'm afraid."

The little beast's face turned into a painful grimace. She looked as if she was about to "sound her barbaric yawp". But she was not one for poetry. 

"I'm not dating any of your grandsons," she replied with teenage rancor. 

Tywin would have chuckled. A flash of amusement crossed his features. "You don't have to. Your sister and hence, your family, will be joining mine some time in the future. I intend to be prepared."

Arya had little to say to that, but she stuck half a toe out of her sandal. She thought he couldn't see. But he saw everything. Her nail polish was deep sea green. 

"You had better clean those too," he said, staring at her feet.

Arya flushed and moved one foot behind the other.

"Now that the dress code is settled, I expect to never have to address it again."

"Dad said I'd only get you coffee and update your Twitter or type up some emails."

Tywin raised an eyebrow. "Is there a question?"

"Why do I need to be dressed up for -"

"Because I require it. And that is _enough."_ His visage was golden steel. The afternoon light could barely compete.

Arya scratched her elbow stubbornly. 

"You are invited to run downstairs and tell your father this arrangement doesn't suit you," he added evenly, booting up his laptop. He knew a Stark would never cry wolf, ironically. 

Arya was miffed, but she was not about to back down completely. 

"Do you want me to change right now? Because I don't have any skirts and stockings on me, _Sir."_

Tywin clenched his fingers over the keyboard. He felt a twinge of need, as if his hand would be better employed if he were using it on her. 

"Another thing we need to discuss is your language."

"Let me guess. It's unacceptable," she mumbled, rubbing her sandals against his carpeted floor.

"You're a fast learner. Now, pull up a chair and sit. I have some personal emails that need taking care of."

* * *

 

"That is not how you spell synecdoche."

Arya pressed the erase button several times. She was about to google the spelling when she felt a sudden sting across her fingers. 

She looked up in shock.

Tywin Lannister had just hit her hands with a protracting stick, the kind someone usually used for a PowerPoint presentations. 

_"No._ I will dictate it to you. Get it right this time."

She didn't get it right the second time. 

"It's not my fault. No one uses this word," she complained and tried to open a google window again. She received another sting, this time on the back of her hand.

"Ouch!"

"You will get it right, eventually."

Arya's eyes traveled to the stick which was leaning against his thick palm. She looked at it calmly, as if she was analyzing an enemy. 

Tywin waited. He would remember this moment later as the moment which settled the pattern between them. She could have got up and walked away. Could have gone to her father. 

She didn't.

"I don't think I'll ever get it right," she said, staring now at the red spot on her hand. 

"Oh, I am confident you will. I am a patient man, Miss Stark."

Arya's fingers shook slightly as she raised them above the keyboard. 

"S - Y - N - E..." he drawled.

Arya typed.

She had accepted his tutelage, even if she did not know it. 

* * *

 

The next morning, she was wearing a white, buttoned up blouse. Badly pressed. It went all the way to her neck. Clearly a size too large. Her sister's. Her hair was pulled in two silly little whirls atop her head. Her mother's work. 

She greeted him at the door with the wrong kind of coffee. 

"You didn't tell me what kind you liked, _Sir."_

His eyes traveled below the cup she had extended towards him.

No skirt. Black shorts that barely covered her thighs. Made less ridiculous by a pair of black see-through stockings. 

It would have been better if she were still wearing her overalls. She had followed just enough of his instructions to make him livid. 

Tywin clenched his fingers inside his coat pocket. He wrung the leather of his suitcase, feeling the moisture pooling in his palm. 

"Step inside."

* * *

 

"That is not how you spell obsequious."

This time, he flicked the stick across her legs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, did I mention this will have echoes of Secretary? yeah, be very, very afraid.   
> also, just to clear things up, arya is sixteen going on seventeen in this fic, which means that you are all going to hell for reading this. see you next time!

**Author's Note:**

> this is my coping mechanism with school. that is to say, trash is my coping mechanism. enjoy.


End file.
